


Mister Murder

by stilinskisoul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deucalion isn't blind, Investigations, M/M, Police Officer Derek Hale, warning for violence is not a joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisoul/pseuds/stilinskisoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a detective who has been tracking an assassin for years. However, he hasn't had one opportunity at all to catch him—he's like a phantom in the shadows. Now he seems to have a chance, but the local police department is in his way.</p><p>Will Derek be able to meet the mysterious hitman this time despite the given circumstances? Will he have a chance at last to take his opportunity and arrest him once and for all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mister Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there!
> 
> First of all, I would like to point out that I'm still going to keep up with my two in-progress stories, but in the past few days I didn't feel like writing either of them, so not willing to screw them up, I settled with writing this. (I think it's better than forcing out the chapters from myself.) I felt more in the mood for this one with the Hitman AU for some reason, so here it is. I hope you'll enjoy it.
> 
> And again: **the tag for upcoming violence is _not_ a joke**.

This was just another day.

He placed the sniper rifle back into its rightful place in the bag, put a bomb next to it, which he had just activated, then turned on his heels and walked away casually, the bomb exploding behind his back in a short while.

He slid through the entrance of the ratty-looking building to an empty street. No one was hanging around, which was perfect, because he didn't have to worry about a potential testimony by a witness who saw him leaving the building. He put on his pilot styled sunglasses, walked to his streamlined light graphite grey sports car and drove away as though he hadn't just shot somebody.

A casual, casual day.

. o O o .

“Another murder?” the chief hissed, dragging the end of his pen out of his mouth. He'd been chewing on it for a while, suppressed under a fair amount of anxiety due to the previous killing that had occurred two days ago, apparently. “Where now?” he prompted as he pulled himself directly close to his desk, already frowning down at the map his deputy was shoving in front of him.

“Here,” said he. “In Philadelphia. The mayor got a headshot. Two attempts.” He eyed his foreman with his teeth sunk deep into the soft pink flesh of his bottom lip before bracing himself and asking, “What do we do now, Chief Hale?”

Derek looked up at his deputy with a firm pale green gaze that conveyed the message 'do you really need to ask?' pretty clearly. His lips were pursed angrily, but he hissed out between clenched teeth in a low tone, “Get us a last minute flight ticket. Now.”

And that was that—the boy was out the door as fast as it was physically possible.

The next flight to Philadelphia took off five hours later, and Derek spent the entirety of his spare time to collect all the files he'd had about his Phantom Assassin, even driving home for the sake of getting the folders he kept there, too. The last thing he grabbed was his laptop, and then he was on his way to the airport, where his co-worker had already been waiting for his arrival.

“Got everything?” Derek asked. The boy nodded, an indication he was ready to dive into another attempt to catch Phantom Assassin. Maybe it was just a hopeless case, they had been waltzing with this guy for _ages_ , and the most they had about him was the places and time he committed his murders. Not a photo, not a fingerprint, not a DNA sample, no nothing.

Sometimes even Derek thought this wasn't an actual person, just a shadow that his mind had created. How could someone be so unbelievably and _unfairly_ pro after all? Not even making a mistake _once_ , just so Derek could have a good day.

After taking their seats, he set his phone on aeroplane mode, then launched his laptop and opened the documents connected to the assassin. He had been playing this cat-mouse game with him for way too long, which is why he did not spare a thought to giving up, ever.

He dimly registered Scott's presence next to him as the deputy was making himself comfortable in a wannabe sleeping position, but this was automatically shoved at the very end of his mind, directly addressed to his subconscious so he could focus on what he was doing—which consisted of reading everything concerning this hitman in careful detail, still trying to find a pattern. He _knew_ it was right in front of him, but he just couldn't put his finger on what was it.

. o O o .

The next thing he knew was that Scott was jabbing his finger restlessly against his shoulder until he woke up. Derek had no idea when he had fallen asleep, and he mentally cursed himself for wasting precious time. He wanted to refresh his memory about Phantom Assassin to be able to recall any piece of important information right away from the top of his head whenever it was necessary, but apparently his drowsiness had won out when he had merely been at the first quarter of the typed files.

Derek scooped up his stuff, then he and Scott took a taxi to the hotel in which Scott had booked rooms for themselves. When he had assumed Derek would want to have his own space for himself, he had assumed right; the moment they arrived to the appropriate floor, Derek immediately took off for his room from the elevator.

He spent the entire night reading.

. o O o .

The first thing they did the next day was to pay a visit to the local police department just so they can cooperate—for Derek, the term 'cooperation' basically meant for the police department to supply Derek and Scott with any information they may need in connection with the murder of the mayor. They had the permission to investigate the case, after all, not the local enforcement.

Following that, they taxied back to the hotel, where they had breakfast. Derek then migrated back to his room merely to clunk out on his bed. He seized the much deserved sleep he'd deprived himself of the previous night, drifting off extraordinarily fast and easily.

When he awoke, dark was surrounding him even without the use of the blinders in front of the windows. Derek muttered a few colourful curses under his breath in annoyance of himself. He'd wasted a lot of time by now, and he could only hope Scott had done something remarkable during the time he had spent unconsciously on his bed, dead to the world. Derek more or less managed to smooth his white button-up shirt on his body, then threw on the light grey jacket of his suit, too, considering it was better to hide those wrinkles from the people's eyes.

He descended in the elevator to the first floor where the restaurant and a bar was. He didn't feel particularly hungry, so he settled with the latter option to approach. Another man was already standing there, his bare forearms stretched out on the counter that reached to his armpits. From where Derek stood, it reminded him of a giddy little kid waiting for some reward, only the man seemed to be as calm as possible.

He hid the small smile that tugged on the corner of his lip and stepped next to the other. The bartender noticed him in a little time, and was there in a second for the sake of taking his order. He requested whiskey, and couldn't help the urge to glance to the right, to the unknown individual's glass.

“Celebrating something?” he asked before he could think of it. When the man turned his face to direct his gaze at Derek, he absentmindedly wondered if he was even legal. At first sight, he looked ridiculously young, but further inspection told Derek he wasn't underage. Thank God, he would have felt awkward if he had to arrest this so innocent-looking guy.

The lopsided smile broke the angelic composition of his face, though, and turned it into something more devilish, something way more wicked. Derek's breath hitched in his throat at the other's chameleon-like nature.

“You could say that, I suppose,” he answered. His voice was nothing Derek expected. It was bordering sounding like a boy's, but on the other hand it also had a low ring to it, balancing it out, and giving away the fact that the _man_ in front of him wasn't actually as young as he seemed to be. The Man took a small sip of his champagne before giving a once-over to Derek. Damn, how could someone so juvenile-looking appear to be so confident?

Derek was still wearing the light grey suit he had decided to put on this morning, along with the white shirt and a black tie. He had looked decent when he had gone to the police department, but by now the tie had come off and he just felt ridiculous with his miserable attempt to hide his sleep-wrinkled clothing under the jacket. The Man had obviously noticed, but apparently decided not to call Derek out on it and just continued sipping his champagne slowly, moderately.

Thankfully, Derek was saved when his order arrived, so he could busy himself with dropping ice cubes into his whiskey. But dammit, now even his drink reminded him of the Man's eye colour. Of course, it was still his life after all.

“What about you?” came that voice again from beside him. He allowed himself a quick once-over for the other, but strictly just from the corner of his eye. The Man was wearing a black vest suit, with a crimson shirt, of which the guy had the sleeves rolled up just above his elbows, and a black bow tie. Fuck, if it didn't make him appear to be even younger, at least a college student. Derek shrugged, which chased another one of those teasingly confident smirks to the guy's face. Derek tried to tune it out by lifting his glass and sloshing the strong alcohol around in it. “Considering the drink you ordered and the fact that you're in a hotel, you must have some relationship issues.”

Derek's eyes widened as he almost choked on the small sip he took of his whiskey.

The other's hand was immediately on his back, giving him a few smacks and chuckling softly while chanting “Sorry, sorry.” When Derek settled down again, and it was clear he was going to live, the guy asked, “You okay?”

He nodded on autopilot.

His mind was too busy wrapping around the fact how good the other's guessing skills were. He momentarily wondered if he was a law enforcement major in a university, or a freshly graduated individual who'd started building his career a short while ago and was already ridiculously good at his job. Derek assumed both was equally possible.

Of course, it wasn't the case now—at the moment, Derek was on duty. Well, mostly. But when he had broken up with Kate and their marriage had ended in a divorce, he _did_ left home and went to a hotel to be as far away from her as it had physically been possible and to drown his sorrow in such strong alcohols.

“So I guess I was right, then,” the other said abruptly, sliding his hands off of Derek, who exhaled a short breath. Derek dwelt on saying otherwise and telling the other about his true relationship status, but he remained silent.

“And what are you celebrating?” he asked, settling with another topic. For some reason, the Man seemed to tense up a little bit, but it evaporated from his frame as fast as it came, his shoulders slouching down again. He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug and kept it next to his neck, his long, pale index finger tracing the thin rim of his glass.

“Personal victory,” he ended up saying. It was an evasive answer mostly, and for some reason Derek itched to ask for further details, but he didn't. Apparently both of them was a monosyllable talker.

After that, they didn't talk much, but both of them silenced himself with drinking their share. However, there was a lot more physical talk happening between them; the Man had come closer to Derek without him realizing it, merely perking up when he felt the radiating heat from the other's body against his own. Before he even knew, they were sharing drinks and having another conversation, but this time it differed—it was mostly about nonsense, and the other did the majority of the talking, leaving Derek with the role of the listener. Not that he minded, nevertheless. He hated to take the initiative when it came to talking, so he was glad that the other proved to have great skills in this field.

Then the next thing he knew was that his mind was trapped in a veil of haze due to the amount and strength of the alcohol he had drunk at the bar. And it wasn't the only thing that should have concerned him, because the guy's body was pressed flushed against his own, and he was the one leading the whole scenario. He was the one pinning the other between his solid body of muscles and the metal wall of the elevator, he was the one peppering hot, open mouthed kisses along the long, pale column of neck that was opened up in front of him coaxingly, he was the one helplessly jerking his hips forward, seeking contact and sighing in relief when he met the other's answering interest.

When the elevator halted with a soft tinkle, he moved to take a step back, but just when the guy tightened his legs around his waist, did he realize the doors hadn't opened up, and probably wouldn't, either. Then, he immediately knew it was the man in front of him who pushed the stop button, earning them countless time to finish what they had started. He looked back into those dilated amber eyes, now filled with pure lust, and he caught sight of the guy licking slowly, teasingly invitingly at his own swollen, gorgeously red lips.

Derek dived back in with animalistic hunger.

. o O o .

In the morning, Derek woke with a terrible, sharp headache. It was the kind that was steady and tortured you until it stopped. However, that didn't prevent Derek's mind to remember last night, and a wide smile crept its way onto his face instantly.

Ignoring his headache, he turned over on his sheets and extended his hand, searching for the slender muscled body next to him, stuffed deeply under the cotton-soft blankets. When his fingers brushed against mole-dotted skin, he couldn't help but recall how well he had taken Derek's relentless pounding, only begging for more and egging Derek on with teasing questions such as “come on, is that all you're capable of?” and demanding “don't tell me you're already tired, give me _more_ ” while riding Derek restlessly, trying to submit Derek under his mercy, but failing at it. Unlike in the conversations' case, Derek did prefer to have control over these things, so instead of giving in, they had fought for dominance in the bed.

It resulted in a fierce sex, probably the wildest one Derek had ever had, with both of them attempting to torture the other with everything they got—Derek had made sure his thrusts upwards never lost rhythm. For the sake of managing that, he had bent his legs under him a little to be able to prop himself on the mattress and give the other what he oh so wanted. In return for the vicious penetrations, the guy had rolled his hips back and forth and circled his narrow hips on Derek's so deliciously that Derek's eyes had ended up rolling back into his head while his head tipped back against the pillow and his mouth had been widely hanging open and in the end he had been forced to close his eyes because tears had been threatening to fall from them, thanks to the intense orgasm that had been building inside him.

If they hadn't gone at least three more times in Derek's booked hotel room after the elevator sex, then not even once.

“Leave me alone,” the guy mumbled in a scratchy voice, his tone even lower now due to the morning drowsiness.

“Morning Sunshine,” Derek said sarcastically, before leaning in and placing a chaste kiss in the middle of a constellation of moles on his cheek. The thought of how starkly different it was from what they had done at night made Derek smirk. Then it hit him; he had slept with a guy whose name he hadn't even asked, nor had the other, his.

He didn't want to ruin the morning with that, though. After all, what if he didn't even want Derek to know his name? Derek enjoyed their time together much more than to ruin it, he knew better than that. Instead, he kept kissing every inch of pale skin he could reach with his lips. The parts he couldn't re-explore with his lips, caressed with his broad palm.

An approving groan was all the reply he was supplied with, but it was enough to make Derek content.

. o O o .

Derek was so zeroed in on the other that miraculously he managed to forget about his headache. He was reminded about it, however, when they both got up and went to take a shower.

To Derek's record, when he offered to take a bath together, he didn't count in the urge to leave in every five minutes because of his nausea. The other just laughed at him nicely, though, and welcomed him back in the bubbly hot water every time he returned. Once Derek was settled behind him, he nested himself back and leaned onto Derek's chest, curling up against him in the most adorable way anyone had ever curled against Derek.

. o O o .

Derek was exceptionally unfocused at work. No matter how many times Scott smacked his fingers in front of his eyes to gain back his attention, he dazed off again, his thoughts circling around Stiles—at least that's what the guy had told him was his name. It was painfully obviously a nickname, but Derek didn't demand to know his real name. No, not if that meant they could meet again and spend some more time together.

“Is everything okay, Chief Hale?” Scott asked, genuine concern in his voice. Derek nodded and settled with an evasive answer, but it was half true anyway.

“Yeah, I just drank too much last night it seems,” he answered as he moved his thumb and index finger to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Rough night,” he added, and Scott nodded sympathetically.

“Well, I have good news,” Scott announced solemnly, which earned him a somewhat shocked look from Derek. It's not surprising, considering the number of years they had gone without any process. Derek immediately shot up from his seat, completely ignoring his hangover.

“What?” he demanded in an impatient tone. He was speaking fast, but that could be etched to his excitement. Scott held up a paper in front of him. Apparently it arrived last night via fax, straight from the local police department. Derek's eyes were already roaming over the lines when Scott continued to talk.

“But there is something...” he started hesitantly. He bit his lip and decided to wait for Derek to reach that certain part of the text that said—

Derek moved the paper further from his face in disbelief before shooting an annoyed glare at Scott. The boy held up both of his hands as if surrendering himself and saying 'don't blame me'. Derek read it again.

_“We require you not to interfere when we hit on the assassin.”_

Derek huffed in annoyance. He wasn't going to let those people catch Phantom Assassin before him. No, not a chance. They were delusional if they believed even for a second that he would let them go and snatch Phantom Assassin from his hands when he was _so close_ after so many years of waltzing around with him pathetically. He wasn't going to just sit around and wait for the proceedings.

Especially when Phantom Assassin was staying at the same hotel they were.

. o O o .

By the beginning of late evening, members of S.W.A.T. had arrived. Derek got to know they were there when Scott, whom Derek had sent out on watch, gave him a call that he had seen cars belonging to the special police department park down in front of the hotel.

Derek picked up his pistol from the nightstand, where he had placed it a short while back, pulled the slide back to check the weapon before he pushed the magazine in. He stuffed it into the back of his pants, put on the jacket of his suit for good measure, to hide the gun from civilians, and left his room to go and join Scott on the ground floor. He didn't fail, however, to also load two more magazines into the inner pocket of his jacket. He didn't want any negative surprises, and it would definitely be one to run out of bullets once he should be face to face with Phantom Assassin.

Just when he approached the elevator, the ground wobbled under his feet as a loud roar of an explosion followed it closely. He couldn't tell which floor the detonation occurred on, but there was no reason for him to go there. If the blast had to do anything with Phantom Assassin, then the guy was already far away from there. Having spent those long years chasing him down, Derek already knew his target pretty well.

But he knew better than to use the elevator now. He went for the stairs and jogged down on them, jumping down to skip the remaining seven or so stairs to shorten his time. In a matter of a few minutes, Scott came to his vision and he hurried over to him. He tried to suppress his panting as fast as he could.

“What happened?” he asked. If anyone, Scott must have overheard the conversation of members of the local law enforcement.

“As far as I know, the S.W.A.T. raided into his room only to be welcomed by a bomb. They suspect it must have been hung on the door.”

“The assassin?” Derek's voice was firm and claiming as he gritted the last word out between clenched teeth.

“Got away,” Scott said, helpless. Derek wasn't sure if he was happy or upset about it and was just about to say something else, but then a soft tinkle, which was awfully familiar to Derek from last night, interrupted them. They both swivelled their heads in the direction of the elevator, and grabbed their guns. Derek kept his pistol whipped and pointed it at the two-winged metal door that opened a few seconds later and revealed—

“What the _bloody Hell_ is this?” Derek asked, furious. A nerve was jumping constantly in his temple due to the force with which he clenched his jaw shut. The picture of a blood bath welcomed them; all of the S.W.A.T. members were shot dead, some of them even had cuts on their uniforms. As far as they could tell, they hadn't even had the chance to react, the attack came so suddenly.

Phantom Assassin was good, he knew what he was doing.

Damn him.

“I'm going to search for him. You stay here and cover the elevator, then call me where it stops,” he ordered.

Scott nodded and put his pistol away, while at the same time Derek ran for the stairs once again. He tried to set up a pace that wasn't too fast, but wasn't too slow, either. But then again, it would be much easier to run downwards than upwards on a staircase—

An incoming call.

“Yeah?” He didn't even bother with greeting Scott. He demanded information, not small talk.

“He's on the fourth floor, I'm going there, too,” he said, already breathless. Derek knew he was already on his way to meet up with him so they could catch Phantom Assassin once and for all.

Of course, Derek beat Scott to reaching the fourth floor first. He already had his pistol in hands, ensured and his finger on the trigger, ready to ignite anytime. He kept it pointing down at the ground as he was moving forward with careful sneaking steps, making the least amount of noise. He kept it up until he caught a glimpse of a shadow rushing out from around a corner.

By the time Derek turned there, the shape had its back facing Derek, running away. He immediately knew it was _him_ , felt it in his very guts as the speed of his steps accelerated and enhanced into a desperately fast running. The lights were flickering on the corridor, but the closer he got, the clearer view he was rewarded with; he could see the black jeans, the black leather jacket and the dark beanie on the other's head. And one pistol in both of his hands.

“Stop!” he shouted, not really because he expected the guy to actually halt and wait him up. He wasn't so naïve. He just wanted to avoid having to shoot at him. He wanted him alive. Wanted to ask him as many questions as possible. Wanted the hitman to tell him _everything_. Derek considered he deserved every piece of information he could lay his hands on.

Then Phantom Assassin suddenly vanished from his vision.

Derek winded his speed up even more and dashed into the room which the assassin chose to run into. It wasn't the day for his nerves, though—the most he could see from the guy was his back, and the last picture Derek had of him was the way he leaped onto the railing of the balcony and jumped off right into the river flowing away next to the hotel.

Scott came rushing through the door frantically, joining Derek at the balcony.

“Derek?”

He didn't care that his subordinate used his surname. He didn't call him out on it. He was too preoccupied with the fact that he _screwed it up_. They fucking _had him_ and he managed to get away from the goddamn _fourth floor_.

. o O o .

Derek and Scott entered the room. It was mostly black, being covered in ashes and when they turned around they could see the stark dark lines, evidencing the detonation of the bomb at the door. Everything was a mess—the mattress of the bed was flipped over and half burnt, all of the furniture was broken to pieces and the fabric of the curtains were torn and burnt down. A faint fog of smoke was still floating in the air.

Crime scene investigators of the local department had already arrived for the sake of collecting evidence to send it over to the forensic lab. Derek's anger welled up in him again, being probably overpossessive with every single object that was laying haphazardly in the room, vulnerable to the explosion.

Everything, except for one suitcase. It was fully covered in the ashes, but there wasn't a single _scratch_ on it, which amused Derek. He approached the suitcase and carefully switched the lock on it, opening it up slowly, warily. Several heavy firearms were contained in it along with rare bullets and almost every kind of weaponry Derek could imagine. And all of it suppressed into one single suitcase.

Phantom Assassin had cool nerves, apparently. It would be ridiculously easy to be found out simply by carrying around all of this.

Derek was holding a little box in front of his face, inspecting it, when two more men entered with one following close behind. Before he could consider it twice, Derek slid the box into the inner pocket of the jacket of his suit. Still, he deserved every information.

The man walked over to him and held out a hand for Derek.

“Deucalion,” he said. Derek already knew he was the head of the police department in Philadelphia. He couldn't care less, nonetheless. Accepting the hand, he shook it.

“Derek Hale,” he answered. Deucalion was already opening his mouth to say something else, but instead of letting him, Derek spoke up first. “Who informed you about the whereabouts of _my guy_?” he asked in a strict tone, putting obvious emphasis on the last two words. He was getting gradually more and more infuriated. Fuck, this guy was his, and he wasn't intend to hand him over without a fight. There was a small smile playing vaguely at Deucalion's lips before he responded.

“I believe we will have that conversation one day,” he said, “but today we have more important things to talk about.” Derek's eyes narrowed faintly, then he nodded to Scott, who, understanding the order, headed to the door. Along with him, Deucalion's subordinates disappeared, too. Line of lights from helicopters were flowing in through the window, and the two men stood in the destroyed room in complete silence until Deaucalion's voice broke it. “If my recollection is right, you were asked to stay out of this raid.”

“If my recollection is right, we were given the rights to investigate the case,” Derek barked back. He had to control himself. Breath. Control. He evened out his facial expression, now showing no sign of emotions. “Why did you want us to stay out of it so badly?”

“Since the assassin is in Philadelphia, it's our job to hunt him down,” came the answer. “You two should go home,” Deucalion added, “and just leave the chase to us.” Derek shook his head. “I understand that you devoted a lot of time and energy into this case, but this isn't your territory. Leave it to us.”

“It isn't just about that,” Derek shot back. Deucalion momentarily lost control over his face, because a slight hint of surprise ran over it. Derek smirked on the inside, satisfied with the effect. He pulled out a photograph from his pocket and handed it over to Deucalion. “There are two things. One; there is something wrong with this photograph,” he said. He had been given that picture earlier today, and he had noticed that something was off with it. “Apart from the fact that _no one_ was able to take a photo of him before, now there is one out of the blue, which was supposedly made by a civilian, but the person shouldn't have been able to take a photo in just the right angle, unless he or she was _asked_ to do it.”

Deucalion's expression was unreadable.

“And the second thing?” he asked, looking back up into Derek's eyes.

“My boy _doesn't miss_ ,” Derek said, flashing a smug lopsided smirk on the other cop.

“What makes you think he missed?” Deucalion asked. Derek allowed himself an inner smirk again—to tell the truth, he was actually hoping for him to ask that.

“My deputy told me the hitman managed to shoot the mayor out of two attempts. But he's never needed to try something _twice_ to succeed.”

. o O o .

One and a half week had passed since the raid, and Derek hadn't met Stiles ever since. He shouldn't have been so thunderstruck about it, though—who wouldn't leave a hotel in which an assassin had been staying and also caused an explosion? Of course Stiles escaped from there as soon as possible.

And it was better that way, Derek kept telling himself. At least Stiles wasn't in deathly danger.

Besides that photograph, they hadn't found any other evidence to continue the investigation, so they had been seriously considering finally going back to New York, but something deep inside Derek told otherwise. A voice in the deepest depths of his subconscious chanted him to stay.

At the end of the second week, it turned out it was the wise choice.

Derek woke up with an envelope laying on his nightstand, and when he opened it, it immediately came clear that it was from Phantom Assassin. There was a photograph of an old, abandoned garage. The dating of the picture was off, though—it showed two days later, which meant it was obviously edited, presumably by Phantom Assassin.

Derek understood the message loud and clear.

He called Scott over to try and find the garage that was depicted. Scott was quite talented in such things, partly that was the reason why Derek kept him close to himself all the time. Soon it turned out that the garage was at the junkyard at the outskirts of Philadelphia.

. o O o .

Two days later, at the arranged time, Derek and Scott went to the set place. They were taken aback, however, to be faced with not the assassin but the local police department with Deucalion as the leader. Derek instinctively reached for the pistol he had in his belt holster, but didn't take it out just yet.

On the other hand, Deucalion's men weren't afraid to expose their firearms. Before Derek even knew, Scott had pulled out his own gun and had it pointed at the police officers not too far away from them. Seeing it, Derek had no other choice but to grab his weapon as well.

Suddenly there was a loud blast of a gunshot echoing through the empty area. Every man turned his face toward the hole in the ground, precisely halfway between the two groups. Smoke was still floating upwards from it, and for some reason it sent icy jolts of chills all over Derek's nerve endings. Then he swivelled his head in the direction of the shooter. The person was in the shadows on a floor above them, where people usually keep the hay in farms. Derek squinted, trying to get a clearer view of the individual.

Eerie silence settled on them. It appeared to be even starker once the sound of the calm footsteps began. The crimson light of the setting Sun found its way through several random holes on the roof, casting into a golden shade the assassin's legs first as he came forward and forward. Derek's breath hitched in his throat when the realization hit him.

Back at the hotel, when Derek was chasing him down, he was too preoccupied with the thoughts of reaching, grabbing, handcuffing and _interrogating_ to actually realize who he had been running after. Looking back at the whole scenario now, though, he should have known. Should have recognized the slender muscled build, the small frame, the broad shoulders, the lanky appearance and the narrow hips.

When the assassin came into full view, Stiles' equally angelic and demonic face was smiling down at them with a lopsided grin.

Derek was still unable to make a decision—which fitted him better? The devil? The angel? Considering the facts, the devil was more appealing, but when Derek took another look at his face, shining so brightly and innocently in the golden shade, he reconsidered putting him in the angel category.

“Don't kill each other, men,” he spoke up with the same voice Derek was familiar with, however, this time it sounded so harshly different, somehow. “I didn't lend you both a message to give you a chance to annihilate each other.” Derek couldn't help but hear the unspoken 'yet' at the end of the sentence. His jaw clenched. “I need you both for some reasons, and I want to ask questions.”

Derek noticed Scott stepping closer to him protectively in his peripheral vision. Mirroring his movements, Derek followed suit. Stiles wasn't particularly looking at them, but at this, he slowly ran his tongue along his plush lips. The sight echoed back into Derek's body as a clench in his stomach, however, he forced himself to ignore it. That stupid Cupid's bow and his butterflies could wait.

Using a grapple, Stiles jumped from the higher floor and descended to join the others on the lower ground. His clothing was the same when Derek had met him for the first time, but now Stiles also had a pair of black leather gloves covering his hand. Figures—he obviously didn't want to dirty his hands and leave precious evidence behind.

Five men from the local police department immediately circled around Stiles, their guns now pointing at him dangerously. Despite the situation, Stiles looked unexpectedly calm, and just roamed his whiskey eyes over the weapons all around him. His mouth then twitched in a suppressed scornful smirk. His hands were empty, and Derek's heart was beating fiercely fast amidst his ribs for some reason. He wanted to do something, wanted to _protect_ Stiles and definitely not seeing him being shot dead. His mind ran a mile a minute to figure out a plan, but Stiles beat him to it.

He reached to his back, then slowly moved his hands. Macabre sound of blades sliding accompanied it, and then there Stiles was, standing tall with squared shoulders elegantly with two slender-bladed swords in both hands, which he had just pulled out from two holsters on his back, hidden under his clothes. Derek didn't even know why he was still thrown for a loop by such things.

Before any of the men could fire his gun, Stiles was already moving. His slender frame allowed him to move incredibly flexibly as though he was a slithering snake. He thrust both swords straightly into the stomach of the person who was standing right in front of him, then, without letting go of the handles, Stiles turned around his axis. It resulted in the other person being practically cut in two. Stiles moved his left arm to take down another man, who was too late to try and stop himself, so ended up hanging on the blood covered blade. It glided through his heart. Meanwhile, Stiles killed the third of his victims using his right hand.

As a reaction to the sound of a gun being ensured, Stiles hauled out the sword from the man's chest and threw it exquisitely into the fourth one's stomach. The man dropped the gun and collapsed onto his knees, his fingers helplessly curling around the sharp metal.

The fifth man grabbed Stiles from behind abruptly, causing him to drop the sword, and his left arm wrapped around Stiles' throat to keep him in place while he placed the tip of his pistol to his right temple. Seeing that, Derek's instincts urged him to automatically raise his gun and point it at the man who kept Stiles trapped.

“Don't move!” Derek shouted. Stiles spared a glance at him with one eye while his fingers were clawing at the man's arm. Then he closed his eye and one of his hand moved to hold onto the pistol. He let go of the chokingly tight arm and shoved his elbow backwards as strongly and fast as he could.

The man dropped his attention momentarily, but that was far enough for such a proficient assassin like Stiles to get free. Now he was holding onto the weapon with both hands and twisted it out of the man's hand, shoving the heavily muscled body over his with pathetic ease. The officer fell face-first to the ground, and without a second thought, Stiles pulled the trigger. The bullet came into contact with the man's arm. Then Stiles shot one more into his spine, earning a painful yell for it. With the third bullet, Stiles finished him off. Parts of brain scattered all over the floor due to the impact the metal had with bone and guts, and Derek's stomach flipped sickly.

Stiles squared his shoulders again, and held the gun up in front of his face, turning it around to inspect it in various angles. Derek was amused that even after that fight, Stiles' outfit was still spick and span clean, not even a single drop of blood could be found on it. His train of thoughts was interrupted by Stiles' snort. He turned to Deucalion.

“Although it's a _Beretta_ , it's not half as bad,” he said in a chatting tone, as if he was talking about the weather and not a pistol with which he'd just killed someone. He started walking towards the man. “Personally I prefer _Smith & Wesson_ or _Sig Sauer_ , though, because, newsflash, _Beretta_ is for freshly graduated police officers to practice.” Sarcasm was dripping thickly from his words, and soon he approached Deucalion.

Stiles threw the _Beretta_ away and reached back to the small of his back. He grabbed his own _Sig Sauer X-Five_ , and ensured it with a practiced movement of his thumb. He pointed it at Deucalion's forehead. The next time he spoke, all the chatty lightness vanished from his tone, and it was replaced by cool professionalism and threatening lowness.

“Who told you about my whereabouts? Who sent you that picture? Who ordered me to kill that witness who's never seen me _once_?” he demanded, his grip on Deucalion's shoulder tightening. “ _Who wanted me dead?_ ”

“I have no reason to tell you,” came the easy answer. Apparently Deucalion couldn't measure just how serious situation he was in. Stiles' eye twitched in annoyance and he moved the _Sig Sauer_ to present the man with a bullet in his shoulder. A painful yell bubbled up from his throat at the sensation the metal caused as it tore his muscle tissues, sinews and tendons and broke his bone.

“In case you haven't noticed, I'm not in the mood for jokes,” Stiles said slowly, rearranging his grip on the other's clothes.

“You won't kill me,” Deucalion said, while Stiles' eyebrow arched up in pretended surprise.

“Oh really? Why wouldn't I?” he asked, placing the pistol back to its previous position against the leader's temple.

“You won't find him without me.” Of all the reactions Stiles could have given, he _smirked_ , and fuck if that wasn't the creepiest response Derek had ever seen.

“I won't?” he asked, shaking his head. “Trust me, I will. You would have spared me months of intense research, that's all. What I know for sure is that he's gonna end up dead in the end,” Stiles said so confidently as if the individual in question had already been finished off. Stiles eyed Deucalion's face for a while, apparently deep in thought, before he took the weapon away. A smug smirk was just about to break onto the man's face, but then Stiles spoke up again. “You don't deserve such a fast and easy death.”

Derek's throat tightened. He couldn't imagine what else Stiles could possibly have on him under _those clothes_ , but the guy was able to keep surprising Derek, it seemed. Stiles pulled out a leather holster from the pocket of his trousers and moved it to his mouth. While he kept the material tightly closed between his teeth, he pulled the knife free.

Derek had never seen such a blade before; it had wave-like knurls, circling back towards the handle. By the time Derek's mind registered what the knurls were for, Stiles already thrust it into Deucalion's lower abs. He moved the knife around, probably for the sake of cutting a wider wound, then hauled it backwards harshly. Deucalion's bowels broke free with the movement, and Scott threw up.

Stiles dropped everything—the knife, Deucalion's clothes—and let the man to collapse down onto his knees. A thick trail of blood was already prickling out of his mouth, and low sounds of pain were gurgling up from his throat. He was forced to keep swallowing, otherwise he would have choked on his own blood. Derek had to fight his own nausea.

Stiles pulled out his sunglasses from the neck of his crimson shirt, which had been there all along, and put them on in a victorious, triumphant movement.

“How do you want to figure out the identity of the person who wanted you killed?” Derek managed to ask once his brain was functioning accordingly again. Stiles looked at him and shrugged.

“I know who he is already, I just wanted a reassurance, nothing more.” The eeriest part of that was the fact that Derek _knew_ that Stiles must have been aware of Deucalion's presence and the fact that he was still alive and could hear each one of his words crystal clear.

“Aren't you disposing of the bodies?”

“Why would I? They were police officers, if anyone's, then their absence will be noticed soon enough, which is why there's no point in wasting my time and energy. Also, they have a tracker in their cell phones, so they'd find be found easily anyway.” The answer amused Derek. He was fascinated by how much the assassin—Stiles—knew. No wonder why they hadn't been able to lay a single finger on him before.

They stood in silence for a while, which Derek spent with scooping Scott up from the floor and supporting him to be able to remain stood. Meanwhile, Stiles removed the insurance from his pistol. He gazed at Derek for a handful of moments, then took off towards the door.

However, before he could leave ultimately, Derek asked something that had been on his mind, something that he'd wanted to ask all along.

“Why didn't you kill us?” Derek's lips formed the words slowly, getting a reaction from Stiles that he wasn't expecting; a smug crooked smile, while his amber eyes remained hidden behind his trademark sunglasses. Fuck, Derek shouldn't have found him intimidatingly attractive. He was sure he was developing a slight Stockholm syndrome, or something similar to that, because if there was something he was certain about then it definitely was the fact it was _not_ normal for someone to feel magnetizing attraction toward a man who had turned out to be a hitman.

“If I killed you, who'd make a testimony and reassure the jury about my innocence?” Okay, maybe Derek shouldn't have been such a goner on the other's cheeky confidence, but he was anyway.

. o O o .

Three months passed since Derek had testified in the court, proving Stiles' innocence. He'd wanted to request for an explanation afterwards, but the guy was out the door as soon as the judge announced that the negotiation was over.

Derek hadn't seen Stiles since then.

Not until he paid a visit to him in New York, at his apartment.

He had already been waiting for Derek by the time he got home. Stiles was sitting at the office chair in Derek's study, his eyes firmly kept on Derek's shape in the dark. Stiles had made sure the lights wouldn't work, save for the lamp at Derek's desk.

Derek startled when the light flickered up and stuttered in his step.

“How'd you get in?” he asked the first reasonable thing that crossed his mind. Stiles wasn't cooperative, though, because he settled with an evasive statement.

“Seems like you're preoccupied enough with work.”

When Derek was sure his question was going to be left unanswered, he asked the other important thing that came to his head.

“Are you gonna kill me?”

“If I was gonna to kill you, I'd have done that when you walked to the car this morning.” Derek shivered at that. Stiles had been here all day? In fact, how long had he been observing Derek?

“Then why are you here?”

“To talk,” he answered in a light tone, then added, slightly firmer, “Sit.”

Derek's body moved on its own as his feet took off towards his desk, where Stiles was. He could still feel that magnetic force coaxing him to be as close to Stiles as it was possible. He sat down into the other chair that Stiles had placed at the opposite side of the desk, apparently while Derek had been on duty.

“I came to answer your questions.”

Derek should have known. Of course Stiles had noticed his willingness to demand an explanation, but apparently he had thought the court wasn't the most appropriate place and time to discuss something like that. But now he had the chance, it was placed into his hands by Stiles himself, so why would he waste his time asking for the reason behind that decision?

“What were you talking about? Back then. When you said there was someone who wanted you dead,” Derek asked. Stiles looked over all the papers scattered around on the surface of his desk, organizing his thoughts. Derek immediately knew it was going to be a longer answer than he expected.

“As you may know, I'm an assassin who's hired to kill people,” he began. “I was hired to kill the mayor in Philadelphia, but then I was told there was a witness. They sent me a picture of the girl, but when I went to execute my order, it turned out she had never seen me before.” Derek hummed, thinking everything through. Then Stiles continued, “Right after I realized that it was a trap, someone opened fire at me, but shot another man instead of me. I managed to escape to my car and get away from the scene. I headed back to the hotel, but that night they raided into my room.

“I killed the S.W.A.T. members in the elevator, then climbed up to the fourth floor. Then came a police officer, who started chasing me,” he said, his eyes looking straightly into Derek's, whose insides clenched. “I was shocked when you turned out to be a cop, but thinking back now, probably I should have known. I've met enough cops in my life before to recognize one when he's right in front of me.”

Derek fidgeted in his seat. If Stiles wasn't oblivious to his anxiety, he didn't show any sign of it.

“I figured out the identity of the actual entrusting. It turned out to be one of my colleagues. He was #37.” Derek frowned. He couldn't believe that even hitmen couldn't trust their own co-workers. Or whatever name they were going by. “He always hated me, ever since we were kids. He would always challenge me into a fight, or a shooting competition, he even made the survival game a competition between us.” Derek winced at the stark difference between 'survival' and 'game'. Somehow the two just couldn't fit together for him. “He was pissed at me because I survived with one shot wound, while he had ribs broken,” Stiles said in a tone as if he was talking about his favourite toy being taken away, and not about an underage kid suffering from serious wounds.

He shrugged.

“Anyway, he made an arrangement with the police department of Philadelphia. According to that, they wouldn't arrest him for a murder which he had committed there, in exchange for him helping them to catch me. 37 managed to get me an order to kill the mayor, but it had been all settled by then. The people hated the mayor, and they were going to get rid of him anyway, but with that arrangement in the picture, it was the most perfect job for me. Then they told me there was a witness, and from then on, you know the tale.”

The most Derek was capable of doing was nodding in a shocked awe.

“And how did you manage to escape from the hotel?” Derek asked once he rode out his first intense waves of consternation. Stiles shrugged, as if that was something easily done. Well, it probably was, for him.

“I hid two pistols among the ice cubes on the corridor of the fourth floor. Then I went to the fifth, where my room was. I hung the bomb on the door, then tied a rope to the railing of my balcony. When the bomb was activated, I had roughly five seconds to get there, then I jumped off and broke into a room through the window on the fourth floor.”

Derek was listening to him with amusement, in silence, that lasted even after Stiles had finished telling his tale.

“And 'Stiles' isn't your name, is it?” Derek asked with a slight suspicion is his tone. Stiles shook his head and gave a small chuckle.

“No. I don't particularly have a name, you know. Where I was raised they didn't give us names, they gave us numbers.” His eyes met Derek's before he finished. “Mine was twenty-four.”

Derek nodded. The most he could do was thinking through everything that had just been said. The amount of information was huge, and he still had to take his time digesting it.

After a few minutes, Stiles abruptly nodded, as if acknowledging that his job was done here, and stood. Derek perked up at that and directed his hazel eyes at Stiles.

“Are you going to leave just like that?” Stiles sent him a lopsided smile as he rounded the desk and headed to the door. Derek stood and followed him hot on his heels. If anything, he didn't want Stiles to go. No, at least not yet.

“Yeah, just like that.”

In front of the front door, before Stiles had a chance to open it, Derek grabbed his wrist. He honestly didn't care if Stiles was to pull out a random weapon and threaten him to let go and then kill him for disobeying.

He had one last question.

“Can I see you again?”

Stiles took his time with forming the answer. When his lips parted, Derek's nerves were all wired up and he was all ears.

“Considering you've become a target due to the testimony you made at the jury, now I'm going to have to watch out for you,” he said with a cheeky half smile. His face was that confusing mixture of devil and angel again, and Derek's legs nearly gave out.

“Is it just for the payback of the favour?” Derek feared the answer, but asked anyway. He knew he would have been cursing himself until the day of his death if he didn't ask that now.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” It was an evasive answer again, but Stiles' voice sounded more concerned, more confident and more determined at the latter option. Derek smiled, his hand sliding down from Stiles' wrist to hold his hand instead. He gave it a modest squeeze, and reeled Stiles in for a kiss.

Maybe he could convince him to stay, at least for now.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to depict Stiles as a fierce, independent individual, who cannot be fooled around, but I also wanted to make a contrast to it by him settling down with Derek's protection at the end.
> 
> And yes, Agent #37 was Jackson Whittemore.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! :)


End file.
